


Run Boy Run

by Arsenicandnewlace



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nonbinary Character, Other, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27273544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenicandnewlace/pseuds/Arsenicandnewlace
Summary: Everyone is running from something. Usually this is a metaphor.This Is About Dealing With The Past and Taking Advantage of Legal Loopholes
Kudos: 6





	1. The Chase

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be every other Sunday

They ran as fast as their weakened body could carry them, the desperate beat of a chased prey's heart in their ears, drowning out the angry shouts of the farmer whose field they had barely managed to grab a handful from. They clutched the head of lettuce and the paltry handful of carrots they had swiped as they crashed through the trees and brush, branches and bramble alike catching on their cloak, conspiring to slow them enough to be caught. And then they stepped through a bush and into air, certain in that second that they would fall to their death.

They did fall, but not very far. They landed on their side with a gasp as all the air seemed to be forced from their lungs. Lying on the dirt trod path, their whole body a livewire ache of hunger and pain, they thought about not getting up. 

But they remembered the blood, and the beautiful pink rose growing from the gore, and the dragonflies' desperate grip on their shoulders, the urgency they seemed to spur them on. The same urgency that had thrown them from The Village entirely, in the dead of night with only their clothes, the overnight bag they took to the workshop when they were in the middle of a big project, and The Axe. It took them three days to actually clean the blood from it, kneeling in the stream, crying over it, the dragonflies settling on their shoulders and head, comforting in the only way they could. When the water ran clear, they told the dragonflies that they intended to go to The City. The dragonflies fluttered in distress; they could not follow into The City. They all knew this. They lifted the dragonflies, placing a gentle kiss onto each of their heads and lifting them to the air. They took to the air, looping around them once and then taking off to wherever they went when they weren't at home. They thought wistfully about following.

They blinked against exhaustion, moving to sit up, despite the protests of their ribs and back, catching their breath as they took in their surroundings. They were in a tunnel, or at least the entrance to a tunnel. They were made a foot or two from the brush covered entrance, and the shouting that seemed to be getting closer from beyond it. They pulled themself up, still clutching the stolen vegetables, and turned away from the entrance. The tunnel behind was dark, packed and shaped dirt held up by wooden beams, not dissimilar to a mine. They took a step, feeling their leg threaten to collapse under them. They threatened it back, took another unsteady step, and made their way into the dark. 

They couldn't have said how long they walked in the dark, before they came across the lantern. It was alone, held up on a hook nailed into a wooden beam; An oasis in the dark, and before they could register what they were doing, they collapsed under it. They waited until their head stopped spinning before examining their stolen goods. The lettuce was a bit squished on the edges, but otherwise in one piece. One of the carrots had been snapped in half, probably in their fall, but aside from the dirt covering most of them, they were fine. They cleaned the food as best they could, brushing the dirt away with the edge of their cloak as thoroughly as they could. Sacrificing some of their drinking water, they scrubbed the last traces of grime away, and took a bite. Several days of borderline starvation made this simple carrot taste like the single most delicious thing in the universe. 

It took barely a moment before all the vegetables were gone, and even less time for them to succumb to sleep, full and safe for the first time since they left home.

* * *

  
  


They awoke to the sound of footsteps echoing down the tunnel. They froze in panic for a long moment, trying desperately to shrink into the lantern's shadow, mind flailing desperately as it tried to figure out which direction the steps were coming from. By the time they realized the steps were coming from the entrance to the tunnel, they were already running further in. They tried to keep their steps quiet, but panic and fear, coupled with the abrupt return of the feeling of the full body bruise they received from their fall made silence difficult. They gasped for breath they couldn't catch, running blindly down the tunnel until eventually they reached another lantern. This lantern sat at the base of a stone stairway, alternating sets of square stairs spiralling into the upward distance. They panted, looking around for an alternative to the stomping echoing stone, and spotted a small space underneath the first staircase, a negative of stone and dirt, and the only hiding place available. They squeezed themself in, pulling their cloak around themself and clapping their hands over their mouth. When the unhurried steps drew closer, they squeezed their eyes shut and held their breath. 

The steps stopped at the stairs.

Then, with a hollow clack clack clack, they ascended the stairs. 

The air left their body is a full body slack, and was beckoned back quickly with the desperate relief of near death. They leaned back in their tiny alcove, determined to continue their rest here for a while, but their back didn't meet wall. They didn't have room to even think of catching themself as they tumbled backwards, the ground behind them crumbling under their weight. They rolled three times before coming to a groaning stop. They let out a weak curse and pulled themself to their knees. 

They looked around and gaped. The walls were made of huge sandstone bricks, fit squarely and neatly together, the walls covered in painting and script they couldn't read, old and fading in places. The room was long, more another hall than just a room and lit from the far end, illuminating a tall square doorway. They turned back to where they tumbled from, studying the way the sandstone walls disappeared into the dark brown earth, like it had caved in centuries ago and had never been noticed. They sat at the base of a slope of earth, a small hole at the top, their entryway. 

They pondered what to do for shorter than they thought they would, pulling themself swaying to their feet and, using the wall as a crutch, they limped further into the painted hall. Their left leg sparked in protest, the foot responding a second after the rest of them did, causing the foot drag limply against the ground before it righted itself in time to catch them as they fell into the next step. This resulted in a scraping grating noise they could almost feel as they waded through the dirt, and the uneven gait set their, hopefully just bruised, ribs to aching. Nausea was starting to take root under their lungs and their head hurt, sharp staccato beats behind their eyes. They wanted to lie down and sleep, even as they pushed themself forward down the hall. They wanted to sit down and eat their mom's homemade stew, even as they reached the illuminated entryway. They wanted to play in the garden with the dragonflies, even as they pulled themself through the arch and onto a landing. They wanted to go home, even as they gasped in awe at the strange ruins laid out before them, rows and rows of old shelves piled high with older scrolls. In the darkened distance, a gigantic statue sat upon a gilded throne. The figure of a man with a bird's head overlooking a ruined library of shelves and desks.


	2. The Scribe

They awoke, unsure of where they were. Groggy and hurt, they turned over and thought seriously of going back to sleep, but their stomach protested, growling under the ever present ache they had recently grown used to ignoring. Grumbling, they crawled out of their tent, a thin tarpaulin stretched between a wall and the ground, and stopped at the sight outside. They remembered all at once, the night before. The chase, the fear and then the ruins they had discovered, quiet and empty, for discovered seemed to be the right word. It looked like no one had stepped foot in there for centuries, the dust covering every surface collecting their footsteps easily. And yet, there was light. Torches lit every landing on the stairs, and a few sat at the ends of the bookshelves. A lantern sat on a lone desk near where they'd set their tent. None sat at the feet of the statues, and multiple it turned out to be. Beside the bird headed man, sitting on a slightly smaller throne, was the statue of a young woman, poised and elegant, with a book settled on her lap like one might settle a beloved pet. 

They had set the tent up behind the statue's throne, feeling safest in his shadow.

They crawled out and, sitting in the dim light and thinking of what to do. They would need to eat soon, gather something to cook on and with, find water, fix their leg; they took a deep breath before they got overwhelmed. One thing at a time. 

They could go back to the farm, now that they knew about the trip wires and the bells, it should be easier to snatch what they needed without being caught. They could gather some firewood while they were out there, and if they could remember where that stream they'd camped at the night before, they could fill up their canteen before returning. 

A plan in mind, they carefully unclipped their leg from their body, placing it on their lap and pulling out a small tool bag. They got to work.

* * *

  
  


They were feeling pleased with themself. Several days later, and they had managed three successful trips to the farmers field, and now had a decent stockpile of vegetables, as well as firewood. They'd also managed to swipe a bucket, which they'd then filled with water and brought back to their hidden base in the ruins. They'd even gathered enough courage, after following the road past the farm to The City Gates, to enter and wander the streets. The only thing they brought back was a discarded map of The City, its winding alleyways, and busy shopping streets, The University grounds taking up a not insignificant portion of the map. 

The City was big, built at the crossroads of several old empires, for a long time it was all that had bridged even older conflicts, until it had grown big enough to be treated more like an equal at the international table. When they happened, The University was founded and became  _ the _ destination for every young noble and heir to get their education. The cost was steep, and the curriculum was long, but if you were Somebody, you sent your children to The University. There were exceptions of course, but they seemed fewer and farther between with every passing year, or at least according to two people they had seen lingering at the mouth to some alley they had overheard. They were grateful that they had never had to worry about that life, though they wouldn't turn down a portion of the wealth it entailed.

They thought of what they would do next, as they assembled a small fire pit in front of their tent. They glanced up at the statue, and hoped he wouldn't mind. The lit the fire and stared at it, legs pulled close to their chest, head on their knees. They didn't know what to do next. They had found the city. They didn't want to enter it again. It was so vast and they were tiny and out of place. They couldn't go back but could they even go forward? 

"May I join you?" A voice asked from the edge of the firelight, deep and smooth and cordial. 

They were up and behind their tent before they could register their actions, unsure how they had cleared the small shelter so quickly. 

"Ah, I apologize." The voice came again. "I did not intend to startle you." 

"Who are you?" Their voice croaked slightly with disuse. "How'd you find me?" 

"I am a scribe," the voice answered. "I visit this place to use the texts stored here, and to enjoy the solitude. I did not anticipate finding another here as well." The voice was calming to listen to, even and near barren of emotions. Diplomatic in reasoning. They resisted the urge to relax, but they peaked out from behind their tent. The person the voice belonged to was a man, tall and lean with dark skin and brighter eyes. He was wearing neat white linen clothes, skirt-like bottoms stopping just above his knees and a beige woolen cloak wrapped tightly around his chest. His head was shaved, and his nose was a sharp point. He wore sandals despite the cold, had a pen tucked behind an ear, and a hand partially outstretched as if their actions had startled him and he meant to place a calming hand on their shoulder before they had moved. He looked baffled. 

They ease out from their hiding place. "How do you know of this place?" They asked with suspicion.

"I have always known of this place." The scribe answered, lowering his hand slowly and taking a step back. "I did not intend to bother you this night, I only wished to know who I would be sharing the library with this evening. I will leave you be." He turned to the nearest desk, picking up the lantern resting there and moving to peruse the shelves. They knew this, because on careful, silent feet, they followed him. He moved from shelf to shelf slowly, occasionally unrolling a scroll and either tucking it under his arm, or putting it back. He would also, occasionally, spot them peeking out from behind a shelf, and turn to them as if to ask them something. They would duck away, and after an unseen moment he would carry on. When he had gathered what he needed, he returned to the desk by their campfire, placing the lantern where he'd found it, and turned. His gaze settled immediately on his little shadow, peeking from behind the statue again. He bowed his head a little at them, and without a word moved past all the shelves to the stairs, disappearing up the four flights. They watched him go from the shadows at the bottom, curling into the closest corner. They waited to see if he would come back. They waited there for several hours, until they dropped reluctantly into sleep.


	3. The Safety In Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scribe Means Well

The Scribe did not return the next day, nor the day after that. But when they awoke on the third day, groggy from having stayed up later than normal trying to find anything in the library they could read, and then deciding they were going to see if they could find anything in The City no one would miss, The Scribe was standing at the desk, sorting a small pile of scrolls. 

They froze, waiting to see if he had noticed them. His head turned slightly, before he seemed to dismiss whatever he had heard, turning back to his scrolls. They climbed out carefully, standing carefully when they saw the pyramid of apples set carefully on a wooden stool. It was a foot from the entrance of the tent and looked like an invitation. The apples looked crisp and sweet, and they felt their stomach growl at the sight, remembering every apple they'd ever bit into before all at once. They looked at The Scribe, then inched carefully towards the apples. He did not move. They grabbed the top apple, holding it close to their chest as they waited for The Scribe to react. He did not. For all intents and purposes, he seemed to be enthralled in whatever he was reading. They retreated behind their tent and eagerly bit in with a sharp crunch. It was delicious, and it was gone too quickly. They looked sadly at the core in their hand, before peering back at the remaining apples. There were about 8 or 9 apples left, it seemed. They looked at the scribe, still hunched over the scrolls. They hopped over the rubble and swiped another apple, jumping back into their hiding spot to devour it. And then they swiped another. By the fourth apple, they cautiously settled by the fire, watching the unmoving scribe as they ate. When they bit into their fifth apple, The Scribe made a quiet "aha" sound, and abruptly grabbed his pen from behind his ear to scribble something down on what looked like a small leather bound book. They had frozen midbite, but as he continued to write, they relaxed and continued their breakfast. 

They had just started on their sixth apple when The Scribe straightened up, closing his book and turning around, before stopping mid step. 

"Did you want some?" They asked sarcastically, gesturing at the few apples remaining. They wanted him to say yes, so that they could sneer meanly at him and say they weren't sharing. They regretted the thought when he replied, "No, thank you. I placed those there for you." 

Their eyes widened in surprise, before squinting in suspicion. "Why?"

"You seemed hungry. I did not see any other food here." He took a cautious step forward, and when they didn't jump up or shrink back he took another until he was close enough to sit elegantly on a large rubbled brick fallen from the wall. "Might I ask you a question?"

They nodded shallowly. 

"Are you living here?" 

They blinked in surprise before nodding again. The Scribe hummed. "You are alone, as well." It wasn't a question, more an observation. They nodded anyway. "How long do you plan to live here?" 

"Why?" They asked, a little overwhelmed at the mere thought of the future. The only thing scarier to them was the past. 

As if reading their mind, The Scribe raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I do not mean to pry. I ask only because this is not a suitable place for habitation. People need sunlight, and fresh air, and easy access to clean water. You have none of these here. That isn't even to mention the dubious state of the architecture. Why do you remain?" 

"I feel safe here." They surprised themself with their honesty, and by the way he drew himself straighter, they had surprised The Scribe as well. 

"You feel safe in ruins?" 

"It's an ancient library, right?" He nodded. "There's nothing safer than a library. And I've always loved old things. It's a two for one, right?" Their voice carried a desperate edge, a 'please accept this answer and drop it' tone of voice that did not go unnoticed. 

"I understand. But you must take care. Do you have funds?" When they answered in the negative, he clicked his tongue, disapproving but thoughtful. "Do you have a way of procuring funds? You look as though you possess usable skill."

They didnt know if they should take that as a compliment so they put it out of their mind. "I was an apprentice, at the Guild of Artificers."

"They have a guild in the city above us. Could you not work for them? They could help you find lodging as well."

They shook their head. "I can't. Don't ask why. It's complicated. Thank you for the apples." They gathered the few that were left and jumped over the rubble to find a hiding spot further away. They heard The Scribe say "I apologize." And they heard him leave. 

Later they decided to see if they could find The Scribe and apologize as well. They knew he came down from the stairs, having seen him disappear up past the fourth landing, and not go through the door on the third as they did. They climbed the stairs with the lantern and stopped when they reached the ceiling. Though the stairs did go up, beyond the fourth landing they seemed to be blocked by rubble. They stared for a long time, wondering if echoes would make it sound like he was going further, trying to explain what they saw, when they saw the sparkle of polished metal. Leaning closer to inspect it, they discovered it to be a silver ring inset with a small dark blue opaque stone. Cautiously they plucked it from the rubble, and examined it, and on a whim, slid it onto their middle finger. It was a perfect fit. 


	4. The Guild

The Scribe did not return before all the apples were gone, and they regretted eating so many that first night. They returned to the Farmer's field but the vegetables weren't as satisfying and the season was turning. They probably wouldn't have access to so many in time, not from the fields. They would need another way. They, of course, couldn't deny that The Scribe was right. New to the city and with no other prospects, contacting the Artificer's Guild would be their best bet at obtaining enough funds to keep them from starving. 

As they pulled their cloak around their shoulders, they thought of their old guild trainer, nostalgia and guilt warring within them. With a shake of their head, they disappeared into the drizzling afternoon rain. 

The guild office was sandwiched on a narrow street, between a boarded up bakery, and a pawn shop with so many signs in the window, it at first seemed to also be boarded up. The street was not far from The University and even closer to The City Hall. In the current weather, the street was completely deserted.

They knocked on the door and a hatch lifted just above eye height. The person behind the door, with the impatience of one wanting to get back to a fresh and comforting cup of tea, said "Yes?"

Under their hood, they pushed back their growing nerves and said back, "I'm looking for work."

The person replied shortly "Guild members only" and shut the hatch

"I am a guild member" they said quickly and loudly enough that the person would still be able to hear them unless the door was dampened. A moment passed, and then the door opened a sliver. They were studied for a moment before the person said suspiciously, "I've not seen your face here before."

"I'm from the Village by the Forgotten Forest. My Guild Master was Maurice, my trainer was Ion Lazar." They held out their left arm, on which contained both their mechanical hand, a whirring magical marvel of mechanical skill, and their stone bead bracelet. The latter had been a gift from Ion Lazar on the one year anniversary of their apprenticeship under him. They'd worn it every day since. 

The person behind the door studied the bracelet, then seemed to pull out a pair of shining glasses and studied it again. They nodded, and opened the door wide, gesturing them in. "Come in, we'll see what we have for you."

* * *

  
  


The person behind the door turned out to be a tall buxom woman in her early 60s named Elzbieta Marquis. Her hair took up most of her height, the greying blonde piled high in deliberately messy curls. Liz, as she insisted on being called, led them to a work room just off a small kitchen, and sat them down in front of a few small trinkets, broken in several obvious spots. She explained each item, and told them what needed to be fixed. Then she disappeared down the hall. The repairs were simple and easy with all the workshop's tools in front of them. When Liz came back an hour later, all the trinkets had been repaired and tidily packed up to be returned to their owners. Reluctantly impressed, she moved to a lock box and pulled out a guild approved fee for the work. She pressed the coins into their hands and told them to come back if they wanted more work, but also to wear something a little more professional. They nodded, mentally counting their money, and left with a wave. Disappearing into the gloom, they felt lighter than they had in months. Hopeful, almost. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


That hope found them at a solitary table booth in a quiet bar near The University. They munched on a plate of fried potato wedges and drank deeply from a mug of honeyed alcohol and tried desperately to ignore the swarming buzz of anxiety at the back of their mind. 

Liz had not completed Guild Protocol when they were there, but the trinkets were an obvious test of their skill. She would probably be sending the appropriate letters to the guild master and to their trainer, both for confirmation of identity and apprenticeship, but also to inform them of their whereabouts. Ion Lazar would know they were alive and in The City. He would know they had survived that night. He would know where to find them. He would be Concerned. 

They breathed deep to keep themself from hyperventilating. As they breathed, they counted. It would take three days to get a letter out of the sprawling city. Another day to travel to The Village. Half a day to compose and seal a response. Another day's travel, and three more to reach Liz's hands. That gave them a week and a half, provided they didn't use anything to expedite the exchange of information. And providing Ion didn't travel with the return letter, or forgo a written response altogether. They drowned the last of their mead. A week. A safe week at least. They had to get as much done in that time as they could and then disappear again. They didn't want to know what Ion thought of the mess they'd escaped, so they needed to leave again. Or just hide away. The ruins were safe, but little else was.

Feeling their stress rise again, they aggressively pushed the thoughts away and focused on the bar itself. It was dark, and mostly wood, except for the plain stone floor. It wasn't empty but the patrons were sparsely scattered around the room. Except for the table behind them, they were alone. They focused on the table behind them. There were two people, one tall and stout, dressed in varying shades of purple and grey, with dark skin and darker hair. The other was tall and lithe, and dressed wholly in black, skin pale and curly brown hair neatly piled on their head. The one in purple groaned as they sat at the table booth and stretched tired muscles. 

The one in black chuckled lightly and called out the server, ordering two drinks on tap and then turning back to their companion. 

"You just need some rest, when was the last time you slept?" 

"Last night. Im fine, I just.."

"Just…?"

The one in purple sighed. "They're really pushing me to compete this year."

The one in black winced sympathetically, and reached out a hand to pat them on the shoulder. 

"I need a way out." They said, leaning into the comforting pat.

"I've been reading into that actually, and I think I have an idea. You might not like it tho." 

They bantered a bit, back and forth. Familiar and familial. It made the nostalgia well up again, and they closed their eyes, imagining they were a part of it. 

"Alright, what's your idea?"

"I found this tricky bit of law-"

"Uh huh"

"-it's good, I promise. So you are legally bound to your company. You need to complete a goal they've established for you before you are free to pursue your own ends."

"Yes, I'm aware." 

"Unless,"

(Unless..?, they thought)

"Unless..?" The one in purple prompted.

"Unless you were a part of an adventuring party!" 

There was a long silence before the one in purple snorted. 

"No, hear me out!" The one in black exclaimed before barreling on. "You are technically a tournament fighter despite having never fought competitively, thus you fall under gladiatorial law. You must be insured by your contractor. But who's gonna insure an adventurer?"

"I'm not allowed to have other jobs." 

"It's not a job, it's a hobby."

"Still counts." 

"Nuh-uh! Not if you were an adventurer first!" 

"...But i wasn't an adventurer first..?"

"Weren't you? What is life but a grand adventure, and us, the living, her grand adventurers." 

(They snorted quietly in amusement)

"Feels like a stretch."

"Eh, maybe so." The one in black shrugged. "But I'd vouch for you." 

"You're a known criminal." The one in purple deadpans.

"You got any better ideas?"

The one in purple sighed. "Okay. So what do we do now?"

"Well, first we need a full party."

"How big is a full party?"

"3-8 people."

"Robin. We are but 2 people."

"So we find more!" 

"Who? The bartender? That person behind you? How about we ask the librarian?"

As Robin sputtered a reply, they wished the two good luck in their mind. They grabbed their cloak and dropped some coin on the table, enough to pay for the meal and give a decent tip. They raised their hand to the bartender, who gave them a parting nod, and they disappeared back out into the city. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous Mcelroy References


	5. No One Told You Life Was Gonna Be This Way

From atop the stairs leading down into the ruins, they could see light illuminating the far end of the grand space. Feeling safe, they didn't bother sticking to the shadows and they were rewarded by the sight of The Scribe crouched by the makeshift fire pit, a pot of something perched carefully above the warm flames, as he occasionally stirred. He glanced up at their approach, and though he didn't smile, something in his visage warmed in greeting. 

"You return." He said, in a voice as deep as time. "Later than your usual. It went well?" 

They nod and presented the remaining coins. "Found some work at the guild." They place the coins in a pile on the desk propped against the wall, and without turning around, begrudgingly admitted, "it was a good idea."

The Scribe, to his credit, did not brag or boast or smugly declare that of course it was a good idea, he'd suggested it. He merely nodded, and in a tone so warm it stood perfectly in place of a warm smile, said "I'm glad it worked out for you." 

They waited a moment to see if he would say anything else, but when he merely returned to the pot, they relaxed their shoulders, unsure of when they'd tensed up, and smiled. Content and safe. They draped their damp cloak over a carefully stacked tower of rock and rubble, hanging it to dry. They gathered the scrolls stacked on the desk and went to join the scribe by the fire. The Scribe stood elegantly from his crouch and moved out of sight before coming back with two bowls. As he spooned out the contents of the pot into the bowls, they watched him curiously before eventually asking, "whatcha got there?" 

"I have made a stew."

"Yum." They were skeptical, having never seen The Scribe eat before, but they were still hungry and it smelled delicious, now that they were close enough to smell it. The Scribe handed them a bowl, hesitating for a moment, before filling his own bowl and sitting beside them. 

"It has been some time since I have had reason to cook." He glanced up a little, and he seemed to hunch down shyly with perfect posture, meeting their eyes without meeting their eyes, and looking through his eyelashes while still towering over them. The effect was that of an ostrich having been raised by domestic dogs, and trying very hard to emulate their body language without the right joints in the right places. He was elegant, and tall, and currently trying to express embarrassment he was not made to express in a way that they would understand. It was as adorable as it was difficult to look at, so they smiled slightly, and took a bite of stew. The flavour was comforting and strange, familiar and so distinctly unlike anything they'd ever had before. 

"It's good." They said quickly between bites. It wasn't a lie either. On pain of death, they wouldn't have been able to say what the stew contained, but it was good.

The Scribe seemed to perk up at their enthusiasm, and after a moment turned to his own bowl and quietly ate his own portion. The silence was comfortable. 

When they had both finished eating and the bowls were set aside, The Scribe gestured to the stack of scrolls. "I have pulled out some texts I believe would be easy enough to start with, if you are still keen to learn the writing." 

"I am," they said eagerly. They enjoyed learning. More than that, they missed learning. Missed sneaking into their father's library when he wasn't there, missed the random lessons Ion Lazar would instruct them in when the whim struck him. The Scribe had already promised to teach them to read the writing on the wall, and though they knew him to keep his word, their acquaintanceship was still new and they were glad he had not forgotten. 

The Scribe let out a little hum, a pleased sound, and they wondered if he missed teaching as much as they missed learning. 

The two sat by the fire, a scroll stretched across their laps like a throw blanket, warm in the light and safety of a ruined library. They felt more at peace than they had since That Night, and they leaned into the learning like a favourite pillow; soft and familiar and so, so comfortable.

* * *

  
  


In the city above, a thief hopped between shadows beside their slightly-less-stealthy-but-also-not at-all-trying-to-hide companion as they walked from the bar back to the university. It had stopped raining an hour before and the evening sky was just starting to sparkle with stars, like precious jewels at the bottom of a dark pool. They longed to don their wings and fly up into the sky and see how many of those jewels they could scoop up before they fell back to the earth. Instead they kept pace beside their companion, hopping between shadows and trying to convince them of their plan. 

"Listen, I heard Rupert and his cronies are going exploring in a few days. We could tag along with them."

Their companion snorted. "Rupert's barely a student. What is he even studying? And what are they exploring; their options?"

The thief giggled. "He's studying business, apparently." 

"Oh that's just great.  _ Business students. _ " They hissed under their breath in exaggerated disgust, their eyes cutting across to see the thief stumbling out of the shadows giggling. They smiled. "Okay but seriously, where are they going?" 

The thief caught their breath. "They're just going under the school. It'll take maybe an hour and we'll all swear it was quite the adventure. We sign the papers, and boom! Adventuring party!"

"What papers?" They asked suspiciously. Their hand fidgeted with the hilt of the sword at their waist, a nervous habit more than anything. If their parents had taught them anything, and they had learned much from their parents, it was to not trust papers. Of course, the one time they'd not listened, they had ended up contractually obligated to compete in blood sports. 

"It's just formalities, don't worry." The thief said flippantly. "Ruperts got the papers all drawn up, we just gotta go and sign and have fun!" They smirked. "The last part's not part of the paperwork but it's still very important."

"You just want out of the city." 

"I want out of the city!" They agreed loudly. "Think of it as killing two birds with one stone! You get out of your contract, I get out of the city, and neither of us get arrested on the way." 

"Bounty go up again?" 

"Ugh!" The thief covered their face and groaned. "They're being very mean this time." 

"Maybe you should stop robbing the bank." 

"Well how else am i supposed to pay tuition. Besides they're already stealing from everyone else." The latter they muttered sullenly under their breath as their companion laughed at them. They pulled the thief into a one armed hug as the two climbed the steps of The University. 

"Okay." They said as they reached the great doors. "Lets give this a shot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes the title is from the Friends theme song, but its better than just titling the chapter Friends and encapsulates how everyone is feeling right now. Yes, i can elaborate further


	6. Good Work Is Hard To Find

The next day found them back in front of the Guild Office. It was a bright clear sunny day, everything feeling fresh from the rain before, and it was early enough that the street was empty. Despite the weather and the solitude, the hood of their cloak was pulled up, but they had managed to find a pair of black pants and a simple button up shirt the day before. It was all they could think of as "more professional" and they hoped it would pass her judgement. They pulled out a tiny silver pocket watch, and checked the time. They were early, the office wasn't technically open for another fifteen minutes, but they weren't here as a patron. They knocked on the door. 

There was a long moment of silence, so long they were just about to knock again, when the hatch opened with an irritated "We're closed!" Liz glared out the hatch, before her eyes settled on their hooded form. "Oh. You again." The hatch closed and the door opened wide without hesitation. Liz turned down the hall without waiting for them. They entered the office, closing but not locking the door behind them. They hung their cloak up on one of the free hooks in the entryway and followed Liz down the hall. They found her in the little kitchen off the workshop. 

"Want any tea?" 

"Oh. Yes please, if you're making some." 

Liz snorted in amused derision, but she pulled out an extra mug. "You're definitely an apprentice if you've still got those manners." She poured out the water, set a timer, and turned around to regard them. "That's better tho, more professional. You are allowed to have a personality you know, unless that _is_ your personality." She tilted your head. "Your hair always like that?" 

She gestured at their dark but still noticeably blue hair. Like ink that had been mixed wrong but only noticeable once its been used; just off enough that you really have to look to see why. There was a red streak of hair, wine red, blood red, at their temple.

"Uh, yes ma'am-Liz," they stuttered to correct at her look, feeling a little overwhelmed at the barrage. "It grows like that. I can keep it covered, if you'd like?"

The timer went off behind her and Liz turned around with a wave. "Don't bother, it looks good on you. Gives you some personality. Our customers are aware we are living people and they expect that at this point. Or they'd better. It'd be more suspicious if you didn't have any quirks at all. Just keep yourself clean and tidy and you'll be fine." She turned around again, mugs in hand and moved to one of the work benches. She pulled out the chair and reached around the table and pulled out a stool, placing it in front of the desk and gesture in a wide sweep, for them to sit down. 

"I'm old so I get the chair." She settled herself down as they perched on the stool, picking up the mug of tea in both hands, sighing as the heat seeped into their hands. It felt nostalgic. 

The next hour or so was spent in conversation, or interrogation as it felt a bit like. Liz peppered them with questions about their past, The Village, and Guild Master Maurice in particular. She asked them about the things they had worked on, and the projects Ion Lazar had instructed them on. They were sparsely interrupted by knocks on the door, pick ups or drop offs that Liz insisted she deal with and that they should finish their tea. Eventually, Liz settled back again with a content look on her face, and asked one last question: "What was the first thing you had ever made, fully?"

They blinked, hesitated, and then pulled out their silver pocket watch. It was tiny, styled with tiny flowers and vines, hanging at the end of a silver chain like a pendulum. It was loud too, for a pocket watch; out of their pocket the tic tic tic was obvious, even with the sound of a dozen other clocks ticking around the room. Liz held out her hand and they gingerly placed it in her palm. She turned it upside down, examining it for any and all details. The stamp in the back that marked them the maker, the imprint so everyone knew it was silver, every little scratch and shining polish, every bit of tarnished metal. Then she checked the time. There were three clocks just on the workshop desk, two stating the same time, and one set an hour ahead. She studied them, eyes flicking back and forth from the clocks to the pocket watch. After a long moment, she nodded. 

"It's good work." Liz passed the watch back. 

"Thank you." They squirrelled away one of their most precious items back into its pocket. 

"Tell me about it." 

They hesitated. "It was my father's, originally." They spoke haltingly, trying to figure out how much they could say without telling the whole story; how much they could tell without giving this, essentially a stranger, such a deep and decisive look into a past they didn't want to think about on their good days. "When it broke, he was going to throw it out. Said it would be too costly to fix. I was already apprenticed, so I offered to fix it. My trainer agreed it'd be a good project, and my father consented." They didn't say how dismissively he'd agreed, like he didn't care one way or the other, like it was just as good as throwing it out in the first place. They didn't mention the shiny gold watch they'd seen him consulting for one of his experiments not a week later. They stubbornly refused to think about it themself. "He passed, unexpectedly, before I had finished. My trainer suggested I keep it for myself, as a reminder of my own skill." 

"It was a good idea from your trainer. The workmanship is exceptional." 

"Thank you." They ducked their head away from the praise, feeling warm and cold all at once.

Liz stood and gathered the mugs. "I can't give you work worthy of your skill level until I hear back from Maurice, but until then I can have you do some of the easy stuff. It'll be grunt work, busy work. But it'll be a start. It will also unfortunately free me up for " she sighed, " _ customer service. _ " If they'd been outside, they were sure she would have spit after sneering out the words. "Sound good to you, kid?" 

"Yes, Liz. That sounds good." 

"Good, let's get to work then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liz is based on my own boss, btw, though only a little more pleasant. Still, best boss I've ever had which in this late stage capitalist hellscape isnt saying much


	7. It's Just Business

It took most of the afternoon for them to track down Rupert to the bougie coffee house in the City Square. It took another two hours for Rupert and his Cronies to emerge from said bougie coffee house into the decidedly less bougie city street, complaining all the while of the substandard quality of the contents of said bougie coffee house and how his own personal brand is much better and will sell out all of these other substandard brands once he's gotten his business off the ground and into the greater market, but for now he would remain an underground marvel, but if any if them wanted to buy some of his marvellous ambrosia he'd be willing to sell at a discount to his  _ friends _ . 

The fighter, sitting on the ledge of the fountain a few feet away, hearing this rant, was regretting her choices. The thief was sitting beside her, looking like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. 

"Can we go home now?" The fighter asked miserably. The thief winced, laughing nervously as he patted his companion on the shoulder in what could have, abstractly been considered, a comforting way, if one had only ever heard about a comforting pat on the shoulder from a good friend from a third hand story that a friend of a friend's cousin one saw. Ergo, it was not very comforting to either party. 

"It'll be fine, promise. I'll do the talking, don't worry."

The fighter merely sighed and stood when the thief did. She followed a pace behind as the thief walked confidently up to Rupert, surrounded by five nearly identical young men, dressed so similarly, all with the same nearly identical hair cuts and same look of mild disgust and irritation at their approach that the fighter wondered for a moment if they were clones. 

"Rupert! Hi!" The thief greeted loudly with such saccharine cheer that the fighter frowned, even as Rupert and his clones started to look more confused. "Hey Ron, Donnall, Tom, George, Harry! How're you guys doing?" 

The fighter was mildly surprised they all had separate names, and was even more surprised that the thief knew them all. The clones looked unsure of what to do, and seemingly in unison, they all turned to Rupert for instruction. Rupert, having never had to use his apparent authority before, looked briefly panicked, before he frowned at the thief and asked "Do we know you?" 

"Of course you do! We met last week at the bar by the school, you were telling me all about your next adventure and lamenting how you didn't yet have anyone of the sneakier persuasion to assist. I volunteered my services, but we never did finish our planning." The thief grinned at Rupert, wide and disarming. 

Rupert stared at them blankly, but one of the clones, this one of slightly darker complexion with a scattering of freckles under his eyes, raised his hand sheepishly, pointing at the thief. "Sparrow?" He asked.

"Close enough, Donnall." To his credit, the thief's grin didn't fall from their face, in fact it turned slightly sympathetic, not enough to get everyone's back up, but enough to suggest such a blunder was alright. "You were all a bit into your cups. No matter! Shall we find someplace to speak privately?"

Rupert looked dubiously at the thief before hesitantly nodding. "I do need some sort of rogue." Then he puffed up his chest and gestured to his cronies. "We are all skilled warriors and mages, afterall." 

"I'm just a student." Donnall said quietly, another of the clones nudging him in the side as he did. 

"Then it seems you have need of me and my companion." The thief said, ignoring Donnall. 

"Let's talk terms." Rupert agreed, also ignoring Donnall. The two turned and began walking off, the cronies following behind a few paces. Donnall took up the rear sullenly, the fighter deciding to keep pace with him. 

"What are you studying?" She asked him. He glanced up in surprise, before glancing at Rupert, deciding he was far enough away and answering quietly. 

"Um, officially, I'm studying accountancy, but I want to go into Music Theory. Um, what, what about you?" He fidgeted with his hands as he spoke. 

"I'm studying history and languages." 

"Oh that sounds interesting." 

"It is, I have been enjoying it. What do you like about music theory?"

Donnall smiled, the fighter smiling back and the two talked for the rest of the walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schedule? What schedule?


	8. The Librarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A New Arrival In The Ruins

They returned to the ruins, with a pouch half filled with their earnings, which they added to the previous pile. The Scribe was nowhere to be seen, which was normal for him, but the fire was lit, a kettle dangling above it and just starting to rumble in the way heated water growls before it begins to scream, and there was a plate on the desk covered by a second upturned plate. They grabbed the handle of the kettle with their mechanical hand, placing it next to the fire, and moving over to lift the plate. There were slices of thin bread, seasoned and smelling heavily of garlic. A pile of rice and some chopped vegetables they couldn't identify immediately sat enticingly next to them. They wondered if The Scribe had left the plate here for any other reason than to feed them when they returned. When they couldn't think of anything, they felt their face heat in pleased embarrassment. They were not used to being taken care of. They moved to their bag to pull out the handy little spoon-fork hybrid they kept there, when a voice called from the edge of the firelight. 

"Might I join you for dinner?" 

They straightened slowly, pulling out the hunting knife they kept in their bag. They turned carefully, eyes immediately looking for every escape route possible;  _ around the statue, up the rubble to the top of the bookcases, run until they reach the rope, swing across to the third landing of the staircase and run _ ; their eyes landed on a young woman, tall and elegant and bearing an undeniable similarity The Scribe. They didn't relax;  _ over the fire, ashes to the face, right through her, bowling over, run for the stairs, pull loose the rope there, yank the weight free to pull them up, third landing and run _ . They stared at the woman from the safe shadows of their hood ( _ when had they pulled it back up? _ ).

"Who are you and where is The Scribe?" They demanded, voice flat with fear and anger.

The woman blinked, head tilting slowly to the side like her confusion had gravitational force. "The Scribe?" Then she made a noise of understanding and straightened up. "Ah. No, you would not know our names. My father, The Scribe as you say, was called away to settle a dispute among our family. He expressed his regret that you would be made to eat alone this night, and I admit a certain curiousity about you, so I volunteered my presence. If you will allow it." The young woman held up her hands, occupied by two mugs and a satchett. "I've brought tea."

As they listened, they lowered the knife ( _ when had they raised it? _ ) and looked at the woman for a long moment. "You're The Scribe's child?" 

"His daughter, yes. You may call me The Librarian, if you wish." She hesitantly stepped forward and gestured to the kettle with the satchett of tea. "May I?" 

They nodded mutely, unmoving, watching The Librarian for another long moment as she measured out the tea, and pouring the water. She pulled out an hourglass and turned it, setting it on the desk by the food. She turned back to them, hands clasped in front of her, and regarded them. "Are you hungry?"

They paused, nodded shallowly, before forcing themself to move. They dropped the knife into their bag, reaching back in for the spork, and carefully moved over to the table, keeping The Librarian in their sight the whole time. The Librarian did not move, and seemed to be waiting patiently for them to make the next move. They hesitated at the table, before turning to her. 

"Do you want some?" 

The Librarian tilted her head slightly. "I will not object if you wish to share your meal with me. However, I must point out that my father made this for you to eat." She tilted her head slightly the other way. "He seems worried about you, concerned and caring. It is peculiar for him." 

The Scribe cared for them? They decided to save that thought for later. Instead they turned to the two plates and started dividing the food. "Sharing is caring, right? And if you really are The Scribe's daughter, I would not like for you to go hungry." 

The Librarian did not respond for a long time, so quiet that they wondered if she had even been there at all. Then, very quietly they heard her say, "I think I understand now." 

They turned, confused and still on edge, to see her watching them, head tilted slightly to the side and face warm with that same smile-without-smiling The Scribe often had on his face. "I would be delighted to share your meal." She picked up the hourglass that had just emptied one side, and pulled out the teabags, carrying to steaming mugs over to the fire. After a moment, they followed. 

The two sat together, quietly eating the delicious meal, though they did wait to see The Librarian take a bite and a sip first before they allowed themself to dig in. By the end of the meal, they found themself relaxed in The Librarian's presence. The two found themselves making quiet conversation. 

"I never asked what to call you, I apologize."

"It is alright. You may call me," they thought for a moment, "Call me The Apprentice, I suppose."

"Very well. May I ask what you apprentice as?"

The Apprentice's eyes lit up, and they began to regale The Librarian with tales of gears and mechanisms, clocks and toy and music boxes, and on occasion, arms and legs. They offered out their own mechanical hand as an example, and The Librarian took it, lifting it to her face for closer examination. The Apprentice hid a blush in the shadows of their hood, even as they shifted so their mechanical leg was further from her, and The Librarian lowered their hand so she could ask them another question. She did not, however, release their hand for some time.

They continued their conversation, jumping from topic to topic, until The Apprentice answered a question with a yawn. They pulled out their pocket watch as they blinked the sudden exhaustion from their eyes, and then blinked again at the time. It was late enough that it was almost early, certainly later than they usually stayed awake unless they were particularly insomnic that night. The Librarian leaned in to read the time as well and then stood. 

"I apologize, I have kept you later than I intended."

"Don't apologize, I-" they stifled a yawn. "I enjoyed our conversation." 

The Librarian smiled her hereditary smile. "I enjoyed this as well." And then she leaned down and placed a light kiss on their forehead. As they froze in reddening shock, she turned. "I will tell my father that you are well." As she reached the very edge of firelight, she turned back. "I hope to enjoy your company again someday." And The Librarian disappeared into the shadows of the ruins. 

Some time later, The Apprentice unfroze, and examined the shadows. When they were sure they were alone, they smiled to themself, small and private. "I hope so too." They whispered, and turned to get ready for sleep. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


In the brown stone palace by a shallow life-giving river, The Scribe was decidedly Not Pacing inside his vast and airy study. He was standing in front of one of the tall open windows, overlooking the wide river. His mind was working at a mile a minute, going over the conflict he had been called in to mediate, his decisions therein, and eventually calling back to the young cloaked figure sleeping in the old ruins his daughter had offered to visit in his stead. She had not yet returned, and he could not help but worry, about her and about them. His daughter was strong and capable, gentle and diplomatic when she needed to be, but they were afraid. And Fear often outweighed even the most rational of words. He did not yet know what they were afraid of, but he did what he could to help. 

Like his thoughts had summoned her, a knock sounded from his study door. He turned to face his daughter, taking a moment to study her face for any hint of distress. He found none and he relaxed. She crossed the room to him and he opened his arms for her. She accepted the embrace, resting her head on his shoulder and letting go of some hidden tension with a quiet sigh. Though she was of height with him, she was still his little girl and he was glad she still found comfort in his arms. He let her go after a moment, and the two of them faced the window, taking in the scene. 

"They are well, father." The Librarian said at last. He looked at her from the corner of his eye. She smiled, teasingly. "I know when you are fretting, and I also know it is not due to Uncles' argument." 

He let out an inaudible sigh, and nodded in acknowledgement. "You are correct. I suppose I have been 'fretting'. You enjoyed your meal?" He asked, turning to face her fully. 

"I did," she said, "as did they, I believe. They were.." she trailed off, looking for the right word. "Withdrawn, at first. Tense." 

"Afraid?" The Scribe asked, though it felt less like a question than a confirmation. 

She nodded. "Yes," she said, very quietly, bowing her head like the omission made her too sad to allow into the air. Then she straightened up. "They warmed up to me, in the end. It is as Uncle says, good food is key to good relations. And your food is always good." 

He tried briefly to think of which Uncle might have told her that and decided that whichever uncle it was soured the thought in a different way. A thought experiment for another time, he tucked it away. 

"I am glad. Do you have room for dessert then? I heard your mother has brought home a treat this night, and I would like to hear more of your evening, if you would like to share." 

The Librarian nodded. "I would like that." 

The Scribe offered his arm, and his daughter took it, letting him lead her to whatever room her mother had holed up in this night, with whatever treat she had brought home, eager to see her and hear about her day as well. They both smiled without smiling as they disappeared down the hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lockdown 2 has been hard and days have been blending together so the schedule has gone out the window. To anyone who reads this: I will post when I can break through the haze of paused life, and I will write when I can. I have about 13 chapters already written and more planned, so we'll see how this goes, wont we?


End file.
